


Banishment Sickness

by Nebulad



Series: Stargazers [7]
Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, Other, TLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 03:01:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11865279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: Participants in the Rite can be made ill by excessive banishments; those who shouldn’t participate in the first place, therefore, risk much by overreaching their boundaries. The Reader learns this the hard way.





	Banishment Sickness

The time for the Liberation star drew nearer— the Reader could feel it tingling in their fingertips. As such, the next few Rites were _vital_ to success; and they hadn’t been able to shake off the distinct feeling that Volfred was poised and ready to replace them at a moment’s notice. Their lack of enthusiasm in conversation with him wasn’t helping either— Scribes, the _look_ he’d given them when they’d so eloquently described reading the Book of Rites as _indescribable._

Perhaps reading was no longer novel for him, but to them?

Regardless, the defeat of the bog-crones had to be absolute, and… that was a difficult feat to manage. Hedwyn, Sir Gilman, and Rhae stood against them— the match was more than ferocious, to the point where the Reader’s vision seemed to tunnel into such spectacular focus that their friends’ thoughts came to them unbidden.

_The scribes will keep me, they do keep me, and all of us._

_Forward! Onward! Smite the wicked to free our most worthy comrades!_

_I can feel you there; are you there? We’re doing great,_ you _are. Don’t give up!_

And they didn’t. They _couldn’t._ The bog-crones frightened them, these ones at least; Big Bertrude had never seemed so single-minded, nor obsessed with slavishly serving a dead… whatever. Still, fear and contempt did nothing to aid against their shockingly wiley maneuvers; mid-Rite, they had to confront the fact that they leaned on Hedwyn, and all the witches knew so.

Certainly the Archjustice had something scathing to say about the barest way in which the fabled Nightwings saved their own asses; unfortunately for him, who loved to be heard, the Reader was beyond hearing. They’d been in too deep, as it were— the Reader’s purpose was to strategize, not to participate. They couldn’t physically do so, but mentally they’d been closer to the action than their frail body could bear.

And so they were on their knees when the Triumvirate approached them, grinning and looking to celebrate a hard-won victory. They knew something was most certainly wrong _beyond_ the sickness that coiled in their gut like the Tempest, because Hedwyn’s face went grey and Rhae squeaked and reached out for Gilman in a panic. “Reader,” Hedwyn said quietly, dropping beside them and holding up their shoulders. Something tickled their upper lip and—

Oh.

Blood.

“I’m sorry,” they blurted, unsure what they meant by it. The team was meant to be celebrating, not holding up most of their dead weight. “I’ll be fine I just need—”

For Hedwyn to be out of the way.

_Immediately._

They turned and vomited, feeling the burn of some dodgy Downside mushrooms sting their throat as they were forced to all fours. Blood slithered along, catching from their lip and being forced outwards; distantly, they felt Hedwyn hold back their hair and felt a rush of gratitude. “Gilman, go get Jodi please,” he clipped out, running his hand along their back (the skin of which felt so clammy underneath their cloak).

“I think I can help? Please?” Rhae skittered forward as Gilman saluted gravely and took off back for the wagon. “I think there is a river? Yes, and it is closer to here than the wagon! And, I think the water would cool them off?”

Hedwyn nodded, visibly relieved that she’d suggested it. “Be safe,” he called out as she took off. The Reader, meanwhile, fought to get at least to their knees, swaying dizzily. Their head felt… too open.

_The river will make them less warm—_

_Fly forward as if the Harps themselves are on your tail in full force! Find the fair Captain and bid her come to the aid of Master-Reader!_

_Please, please, please— is that you?_

_Oh but what will I use to carry the water—_

_Could it be the work of the bog-crones, seeking to hobble the noble Nightwings?_

_Reader, can you hear me? Please—_

_And they will need so much of it, so how can I bring it all back?_

_Blast those knaves, for their craven, dishonest—_

_Please, please, please—_

_The water—_

_Those crones!_

… _please be okay._

They pitched forward again with a low keen, their eyes rolling wildly while they tried desperately to focus them. They vaguely felt themself hit the front of Hedwyn, who reached out tentatively to try and bring them up to face him. “Reader?” he asked, his voice sounding so terribly far away for being within arm’s reach.

Exhausted, they felt their limbs quit of them all at once; and for a while, that was all they knew.

. . . . .

It didn’t take them _long_ to come to, but enough time had passed that the robes for the Rites were hanging up, and they were fairly well positioned in one of the bunks that remained after Bertrude’s upgrades. Hedwyn and Volfred were sitting at the table by the door, and they felt the unmistakeable weight of Ti’zo at their feet.

“Banishment sickness,” Volfred said, after Hedwyn had finished murmuring at him. “They focused too deep, and thus experienced every banishment that happened as their own; a novice error.”

“Don’t,” Hedwyn said, his voice tight. “Whatever happened, I’m sure they didn’t know it was possible. If they made a novice mistake, it’s because they’re _self_ taught.”

Volfred paused for a while, and they heard him shift. “Apologies; you’re right. Let this be a valuable lesson, then.” They weren’t sure that phrasing it that was made it more polite, but they didn’t _quite_ care. Their stomach still hurt.

“Why do none of us experience banishment sickness, if you only need an excessive amount of banishments to do so?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject. He too had sensed that it was the only thing they would get from the Sap.

“You’ve merely been lucky this far; if anyone were to get it, I would’ve wagered you would be the first as the one with the most Rites under his belt. It _can_ strike anyone who is merely banished one too many times for their system to tolerate, but sheer numbers do play a part.” The air filled with smoke as Volfred huffed away at his pipe, but rather than making them sick it seemed to have the inverse effect of calming them down. “It would not be quite so bad as the Reader’s affliction; I doubt they could tolerate _one_ banishment, let alone the cumulative banishments of the team.”

They hadn’t noticed while the two spoke, but Ti’zo had shuffled up by their head and was looking at them. _“Kree-hah?”_ he whispered, wondering if they felt well enough for him to let everyone know they were awake. They nodded weakly, wishing they could find the strength of limb to sit up. Someone— more than likely Hedwyn— had removed their leg at some point. It was probably for the best, as it would’ve chafed them half to death by now, but they felt acutely that they were stuck in bed.

He fluttered over to Hedwyn and tugged at his headband, which was all the prompting he needed to stand and make his way towards the bunk. They tried to smile at him, but their arms were dead weights at their sides. “How do you feel, my friend?” he asked softly, kneeling closer. It was probably a risky move, as they had recently vomited, but they appreciated his effort.

“Bad,” they returned, and he smiled wanly.

“I’m sorry. I should have noticed how hard the witches were on you.” He took their limp hand, and they tried to weakly curl their fingers around his.

“You were busy.” Doing _his_ job in the Rites, no less, while the Reader tried to take on so much more, so afraid of being replaced. “I’m okay. I just need to lay down for a little while—”

“Sitting out the next Rite,” Volfred piped from the corner, “is really the only option there is. Strain on your system could irreparably damage something, with skills such as ours.”

Their protest was so violent they _nearly_ managed to stand up. “I _can’t—”_

“The Triumvirates do not _require_ a Reader; I believe only a few of our adversaries possess one, if any do. I can read the stars to guide them, and they can compete by their own skills.” Strange that he didn’t want to read; that was his plan, after all, beforehand. Either that or to simply cut off the Reader’s influence once the team _knew_ how to conduct the Rites.

“I’ll stay here,” Hedwyn volunteered immediately.

“No.” By the Scribes, they were still the chief strategist, even stuck in bed as they were. Cogs were turning in their head already— how would they manage to make their way out of bed, just to watch? Pamitha would surely help them, but Gilman would guard the door of the wagon like a Titan himself. “Everyone knows how to compete with you on the team— take Rukey and Jodariel. He competes the least but he’s intuitive, and Jodariel will pick up the slack by our Pyre. Sell the plants we gathered on the way here to Falcon Ron, get as much Stardust as you can buy, and make her talisman stronger so she can move faster.”

He stayed quiet for a while, and distantly they could see Volfred considering their plan. “If you say so, my friend,” Hedwyn decided finally. “I’ll ask Sir Gilman to stand here in my place.”

“That’s cheating,” they said with a wispy smile. He grinned back, brushing the backs of his fingers against their clammy cheek.

“I know you too well. Don’t worry about us— win or lose, we’ll come back and start again. Just get better, because I don’t think the Voice will be happy that you’re absent.” They winced, and he laughed quietly. Thinking better of the note he was leaving on, he added, “I know I won’t be, anyway.” And with that he turned to Volfred, gesturing outside. “The stars await,” and if there were a less eager way to express the words, the Reader couldn’t think of one.

“You should rest, Reader. We’ll make arrangements for the Rite later.” Volfred stood fluidly and made his way outside, and with a lingering sort of look back at them, Hedwyn followed.

With both of them gone and the creaking of the wagon the only sound, Ti’zo sat back next to their head. _“Kroohooohoom,”_ he hummed, promising to stay with them if they wanted to go back to sleep.

With absolutely nothing else useful to do with themself, they muttered a quick and fond _thank-you_ before doing just that.

**Author's Note:**

> [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com), and [my commission post lives there](nebulaad.tumblr.com/post/162182264019/writing-commissions).
> 
> Bertrude is always the first of my team to get banishment sickness for some reason, but I figured like... the Reader has to undergo some hardcore mental strain, and like... Volfred doesn't coach them on how to actually fucking do anything. So you have this asshole with mind powers who is driven by the singular desire to succeed on behalf of their friends, you shake well, and you get the Reader gettin' their head too into the game and puking while Hedwyn holds their hair. Tale as old as time.


End file.
